


My Heart, It's Never as Transparent as This Big Glass Window

by midnightshon



Series: A Roommate for the Night [4]
Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2019-08-01 11:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16283465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightshon/pseuds/midnightshon
Summary: The 'you' in Adele's Love in the Dark inspired most portion of this one-shot. Enjoy :]





	My Heart, It's Never as Transparent as This Big Glass Window

**Author's Note:**

> The 'you' in Adele's Love in the Dark inspired most portion of this one-shot. Enjoy :]

** Son Seungwan **

 

It has started out like this, me making way to the coffee shop down the street near my apartment, initially wanting to have a quiet me time, away from my family, who wouldn’t shut up about me finally coming back home.

 

I remember the short walk there, the brown paint its owner keeps for so many year, the iced cappuccino that used to cost me five dollars or so. And, of course, I remember that it used to be your favorite place. That you often went there every other Wednesday and Friday to have a taste on your usual, black coffee with no sugar, while you typed away on your laptop.

 

What I don’t know is that it still _is_ your favorite place.

 

And I see you there, at your favorite corner, next to the big glass window, with your old, purple-cased laptop before you. I’ve always wondered why you like it there. Maybe because it’s the farthest corner in the coffee shop and not so many people choose to sit there, making it a perfect place for someone looking for some privacy. Some privacy in their own world. Someone like you.

 

Then again, I would see how the sun outside is able to reach your figure, illuminating that focused expression of yours that has its all attention on that story you’re typing down on your laptop. It’s like observing an art on display at the museum, and I find myself unable to look away. _Beautiful_ , I think to myself, and I can sense the universe sneering down at me. The ‘yeah, you’re welcome’ kind of sneer.

 

I’m reminded that it’s Friday today, you see. Your usual day to visit the coffee shop, my unusual day to get my iced cappuccino. And just like that first time, you’re here again, at your usual spot that happens to be my favorite hiding place, blinding me with your out-of-this-world beauty.

 

Nothing has changed, I guess.

 

I take one step forward and greet the owner with a smile. She still recognizes me, I can tell, her face beaming like a child as soon as she realizes it’s me ordering. It’s on the house, she says, handing me the cup. And I thank her, grateful that for once someone finally treats me the same, like I’ve never been gone.

 

Unlike my family who couldn’t stop talking about it, my mother making many different kinds of homemade food, my father inviting relatives for a ‘small’ celebration party later this Saturday. After all the years I spent aboard, the last thing I want is to be reminded how long I’ve been away.

 

And I wonder how you would react once you see me.

 

My father, not long after I landed in Canada—I even hadn’t made myself comfortable in the apartment—called, asking if I would want his cousin to come over and help me unpacking. It was four years ago today, but I can still recall the reluctance in his voice, that edgy tone as if waiting for me to admit that I regretted my decision to study aboard, just so he could book the earliest flight to bring me back home.

 

The acknowledgement never escaped my mouth, you know? You probably don’t, but then no one does. I regret it. I regret my decision to leave Seoul then, and more than that, I regret never coming back in the span of those four years. I regret only coming back now. I regret it all, because not until after I got rid of my jetlag that I realized four years in Canada equaled to four yours not seeing you. I regret it because, Joohyun, my dear, I missed you.

 

I miss you.

 

Which most probably is something I’m alone suffering from. This longing. This terrible feeling of knowing that it’s merely a one-sided phenomenon, with me everyday refraining myself from dialing your number and asking my parents if they had seen you around and you—I don’t know, moving on with your life? Meeting new people? Befriending them who were much better of a friend that I was?—the possibility, it’s eating me.

 

Because you never called; you may hit me later for blaming this all on you, because I was the one who never told you my number. I was the one who left with no goodbye. And still, this childish and selfish side of me was upset, angry with you for you never called. Somehow, beneath the unyielding front I put up, I prayed that my mother would eventually have had enough of my stubbornness and just give you my number. But she didn’t. And you never called.

 

As if you’d never noticed that I was gone and hadn’t wanted to find me.

 

As if you’d never missed me at all.

 

Still I make my way there, past five rows of table, on to you. But unlike the last time, I’m not ready to confront you as to why you’re sitting on _my_ table. In fact, I’m not prepared with anything. Not even a ‘how have you been’ or any other pleasantry of some sort. I’m tongue-tied, Joohyun-ah, and it’s just the irrational part of me that keeps me going. The ‘I want to see you but don’t know what to say’ part. I’m weird like that, please get used to it again.

 

“Unnie,” I call out tentatively, and you flinch from your spot, startled. Your eyes are wild, somewhat frantic, as they search for the source of voice, and once you spot me, a frown becomes visible on your forehead.

 

“Seungwan?”

 

“Hi,” I say, reminding myself to offer you a smile as I take the initiative to sit myself down on an empty chair facing you.

 

“Hi.” You stop typing altogether and opt to fold your hands on the table, eyes watching me. I would joke that, yes, it is the real me you’re seeing in front of you, but I don’t know if that would offend you, so I don’t. After all, I’ve been gone for far too long; it’s understandable that you can’t believe your eyes now.

 

The moment I see you from this close range, I notice how your hair is now a few shade lighter than the last time, closer to blonde, I think. Also, you’re wearing contacts, green ones. I don’t know what to make out of those changes yet, but, strangely, they suit you just fine. You look beautiful all the same.

 

Then I realized that I was being naïve. Some things did change overtime—not everything can stay the same, not after four years have passed. What other things did change while I was away? I can’t wait to find out.

 

“You’re back,” your voice works like a rope, pulling me up from the depth of my own thoughts back to the coffee shop.

 

It’s probably your contacts, but I can tell that there are more to that statement than you let on. The why’s, what’s, and how’s, and more. It’s as though you didn’t want me to hear those questions but were dying to get the answers.

 

“I am,” I say, “just a couple of hours ago.”

 

“Good for you,” you hum in response, breaking the eye contact as you busy yourself closing your laptop and saving it in your bag.

 

“Leaving already?” I ask, stirring my cappuccino, trying with all my might to sound casual, unlike the desperate, insecure me in my head. She’s already on her knees—the imaginary me, if you could see her—begging so you’d stay.

 

“Yeah. I’ve someplace to go, actually.”

 

“Another five minutes? Let me finish my coffee first.” _Don’t leave, please?_

 

“I can’t afford to be late.”

 

“Too bad. I haven’t seen you in a while.” _There are so many things I need to tell you._

 

You smile to one side, looking almost apologetic. “Next time, maybe.”

 

“Okay then.” _I wish you could stay._

 

I’m about to stand up and escort you outside when you interrupt me, “No, no, please. I can manage,” almost too fast, as if you didn’t want me near you any longer. Yet I don’t let myself be hurt by such a ridiculous possibility and just nod. You must need time; not everyone can get used to someone’s presence after years of absence in an instant.

 

“Take care,” I tell you, and you acknowledge it with a small nod before rising to your feet and walking away.

 

As the sound of your heels echoes against the wall, there’s this overwhelming urge rising within me, telling me that I should stop you—and I would. I swear, I would. I would stop you and tell you that I’m sorry for leaving; that I regret every single moment I spent without you; that now I’m back, because I can’t stand another day without you. Screw whatever appointment you have next, because we both have waited for far too long and shouldn’t anymore; because I want you to stay here with me.

 

Because I love you.

 

You may laugh at me all you want, but I can see the future ahead of us; me working a government job with this degree I have, you exploring these alternate universes you pen down with your imagination, me every day waking up to your beautiful smile, and you every so often whining for me to bake you carrot cake—your favorite, I still remember that, you know?—and us— _us,_ living in a house build with dreams where there are only you and me and no one else to dictate us what to do or not. The hell with this close-minded society—we can move out of the country if that’s what it takes so you and I can be possible. Screw everyone, because I want you, Joohyun. I want you and you alone.

 

I would, you know? I would, but I don’t.

 

Because you already go out of the coffee shop, and from behind this big glass window, I can see you approaching a car parked across the street. A woman, who I’ve never seen before, gets off the car and opens the passenger seat door for you. You thank her for the kind gesture with a peck—too friendly—on the cheek, and you smile ever so brightly at her—way too brightly, as though that simple gesture means the world to you—and you stop. Your eyes, mirroring the bright sun outside, meet mine, piercing, burning holes on the glass window that separates us. And that’s when I see it. Not in your eyes, but on your finger. On your ring finger, a ring made of gold decorates that slender finger of yours.

 

You’re engaged— _probably married_ , interrupts my brain in bitterness—to a woman in this homophobic country.

 

You’re taken.

 

And now the lucky—no, the _brave_ woman looks down at you and follows your unwavering gaze. I don’t know if she got to spot who you were staring at, because I’ve looked away, too much of a coward to admit the defeat to a fight I ran away from.

 

You’re taken and now gone, leaving me alone with my iced cappuccino and a dream that will never be real, for I left when I should’ve reached out to you and held you close.

 

\--------


End file.
